


All These Miles

by kiemitsu



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Confessions, First Kiss, First Time, Hotels, Love, M/M, Masturbation, Motels, Revenge Era, Showers, Shows, Unrequited, Unrequited Love, present day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-18 00:06:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2328047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiemitsu/pseuds/kiemitsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You never were good with straightforward, you know that?”</p><p>“No,” said Gerard quietly, almost like he was realizing it for the first time, “No, I’m not.” His gaze dropped back to his hands. It wasn’t ever easy for Gerard. No, maybe that wasn’t true. It just never was easy when it came to Frank.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All These Miles

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place post-MCR.
> 
> Edited to fix capitalization stuff and a few other things.
> 
> Completed at last!

Gerard hates planes.

Hates planes. Hates flying. Hates Xanax.

But there he was, lining up at LAX. he shuffled forward in the check-in line. A woman in navy smiled brightly as he approached.

"Final destination?" she asked.

“Newark,” he paused slightly before adding, “New Jersey.”

He felt like the entire airport had stopped its bustling just to stare at him. Hike they knew he had lied to his wife, lied to his daughter, just to---

“Here you are, Mr. Way. Have a pleasant flight!”

Gerard’s self-loathing was cut abruptly short by the woman at the desk. He mumbled a thank you as he took the tickets from her and hurried to security.

He could feel the Xanax starting to work already as the plane hurled forward before lifting off into the California skies. Gerard slowly relaxed the grip he had on his armrests and closed his eyes, pulling his hoodie up over his loud orange hair. It was a five and a half hour flight to Jersey. Five and a half hours of nothing but time to think -- it wasn’t exactly something that Gerard welcomed. But that’s what the Xanax was for.

By the time the plane had landed with an unsettling skip and bump, the effects were wearing off, and Gerard’s heart started to race. The airport was less crowded than he had anticipated, but he kept his hoodie up around his face. There were no mobs of fans, no drivers with signs for “G. Way”, just the familiar smell of Jersey and passengers milling about. He watched families reunited in the arrivals lobby, throwing themselves into each others’ arms and laughing. Holding balloons and flowers and taking pictures. There was no such reception for Gerard, but that was because no one knew he was coming.

From the arrivals lobby to the rent-a-car reception to the low-key motel, Gerard’s heart wouldn’t calm down. He kept looking over his shoulder, waiting for someone to recognize him, to call him out. But nothing happened, and as he sank into the motel room bed, he tried to collect his thoughts.

\------------------

It started with a small paper package.

Gerard hadn’t been expecting anything in the mail, and as he signed for it and closed the door, his eyes widened at the return address.

Jersey. 

Frank.

He clutched the package to his chest and immediately walked into his office, hoping no one would see him, see the thin package he held. Heart pounding, he shut the door.

Frank.

His hands trembled as he opened the package. A CD and a letter peeked out from the packaging and Gerard took the letter gingerly between his fingers. He expected to find Frank's erratic handwriting, but his face fell upon seeing short, printed words instead.

“I’m pleased to announce my new album ‘Stomachaches’ will be released on…” Gerard’s eyes scanned the rest, coming to a stop at the bottom on “...xo frnk”

He shook his head, trying to clear the negative thoughts away, and took the CD out of its case. He had heard Frank’s non-MCR stuff before -- he expected hard rock thrashing and screaming raw vocals as the CD hummed to life.

Gerard’s ears anxiously awaited the sound to come in through his headphones. Alone in his dark office, he closed his eyes as the first song began to creep into his ears.

The guitar. The drums pounding.

All i want is yo-oo-ou…! 

His eyes flew open, torn through by the lyrics and sheer intensity. The pain. The anguish. It flooded through Gerard, surging in his veins.

And that’s when he knew he had to see Frank. He had to see him live.

\------------------

Gerard’s eyes studied the ceiling of the motel. Beside him lay the ticket he had bought for Frank’s first big show at Gamechanger World. He had come all this way, but now he was terrified, full of what-ifs and doubts. Not that that was unusual for Gerard.

“What am I doing?” he groaned aloud, turning to face the bedside table and the ticket.  
A venue full of Frank’s fans, and likely his own fans too. It would be the first time in a long time that Gerard would be on the other end of a show and he wasn’t sure what to do. Maybe the whole thing was a bad idea. Maybe it would be better if he didn’t go. Maybe---

No, he thought definitively, _No. I’m going. I bought the tickets, I’m fucking going. I owe Frank that much._ He nodded to himself as if to say “and that’s final" and took his phone out of his pocket to look at the clock. There were two hours before the show. He called his wife, letting her know he had gotten into jersey and that his parents met him at the airport; that he would call her later. It was almost surprising how easily his lie had worked, though he still felt guilty about it -- but he couldn’t bring himself to tell her that he was going to see Frank.

He arrived as late as possible. Knowing Frank, he would likely be out where the fans were, selling merch and taking pictures with that furiously adorable smile. Gerard kept his profile as low as possible, his hoodie never leaving his head. He shuffled into the back right before Frank took the stage, keeping his distance from the mass of kids with his back to the wall. There was a buzzing of excitement in the air, an energy that Gerard loved and craved. The stage was waiting to be filled and the kids were getting rowdy. His eyes never left the microphone, heart pounding in his chest so loudly it almost hurt.

A collective squeal ran through the crowd, and there was Frank.

Gerard stopped breathing.

Frank was in a hospital gown.

Glowing in white, Frank gripped the mic with his guitar slung across his chest.

Gerard’s mind raced with memories. White hospital gowns and black uniforms. Shouting his soul out on stage. Frank by his side, his guitar screaming along with Gerard’s voice, singing with him. Everything hit him at once, a violent punch that left Gerard breathing heavily, sweat beading on his forehead.

The show was powerful. Raw. Exposed.

The kids rocked along with the band, shouting up at Frank between each song. Frank would chuckle and sometimes respond before throwing himself into the next song after a long gulp of water. Gerard found himself softly singing along, not daring to raise his voice above a whisper. Frank played the way he always had -- with his entire physical being and his entire heart. Every word, every note seemed to tear through Gerard like bullets. Maybe it was because he felt like Frank was singing about him. Maybe it was because Gerard wanted nothing more than to be on stage with him again. Maybe--

Gerard pressed his eyes shut against the small thought. The band had just finished up a song and Frank’s eyes seemed to be looking for something, staring out widely into the crowd before he picked up a bottle of water and drained the rest of it, taking one last sweeping glance out. Gerard’s breath caught in his throat. He felt Frank’s eyes through the dim venue. Of course it wasn’t possible that he had seen Gerard. But for a fleeting moment, Gerard let himself believe that he had. The show was reaching the end.

Gerard stepped out into the still warm air, keeping himself discreet from the kids streaming out. Every single one of them was smiling, buzzing and giddy from the show. Frank had that effect on people. especially on Gerard. That infectious smile had spread to his own lips as the last of the crowd filed out. He peered inside the venue, watching the merch booth. He could see Frank shaking hands and hugging the remaining fans before helping to disassemble the booth. Gerard tried to take a deep breath, but it hitched in his throat and he stood pressed up against the wall outside.

There was only about 6 feet between himself and Frank. He could hear his laugh. Had Gerard been more impulsive, he would have run into the venue. He would have shouted Frank’s name and pulled him into his arms. But gerard wasn’t. He was cautious. He was frightened. So he just stood there, his heart wrenching, wringing his hands into the hem of his hoodie. But his agony was short-lived; Frank’s voice got louder and louder.

“Okay, i’m just gonna grab the--”

Before Gerard could move, he was face to face with Frank, who had been heading out the door.

The smile on Frank’s lips quickly vanished, his eyes softly widening in recognition. Even with the hoodie and even with the dark jersey night for cover, Frank knew Gerard’s eyes.

“Gerard?” his voice was light, a little hoarse, but light. Gerard nodded and Frank looked over his shoulder before pulling Gerard’s arm over to the side of the building, out of view from the entrance.

“Man, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were in Jersey!” Frank exclaimed softly, a smile returning to his face.

“Yeah, I know. I came to see your show,” said Gerard slowly, unable to look Frank in the eyes. A slow flush fell over his face and his heart went back to pounding into his ribcage.

“It was fucking awesome, by the way,” he added, his hands fumbling inside his hoodie.

“Thanks!” that smile again, “Hey -- are you staying at your parents’? I gotta get things settled here, but if you wanna meet up afterwards…?”

Gerard bit his lip, "No, yeah, I’d love to. I’m at a motel nearby...I was thinking I'd see my folks tomorrow, I dunno. Yeah."

“Yeah, okay,” Frank replied, slight confusion in his voice, “Text me with details? I have to head back in before---”

“Yeah, of course. So I'll see you later then?” Gerard cut him off, pulling out his phone and nearly dropping it. He fumbled for it, his cheeks on fire.

“Haha, count on it,” Frank was already turning to walk away but suddenly stopping to look back, “Hey Gerard?”

Gerard looked up from his phone. He could feel a drop of sweat run down his spine. Frank’s voice was so gentle.

“Thanks for coming man, to my show, i mean,” Frank smiled widely.

“Wouldn’t have missed it,” said Gerard, awkwardly smiling back and waving his phone slightly.

And then Frank was gone.

\----------------------

It was around 2 a.m. when there was a knock at Gerard’s motel room door. He had been a nervous wreck, switching from sitting on the bed to sitting on the chair and back to the bed. He bit his thumbnail, turning the TV on and off and on and off, looking at his phone, and then getting up again. His hair was still damp from the quick shower he had taken and he kept running his hands through it. He tried to convince himself he was just hyped up from the show -- not from watching Frank’s small body contort itself around his guitar, not from the way his mouth shaped every vowel, not from---fuck. He bit his nail some more until the knocking at his door turned his thoughts to silence.

“Gerard?”

Frank’s voice was soft and low. Gerard stood up and smoothed his hair as best he could before opening the door.

“Hey man, sorry it’s so late--”

“No, no -- come in,” said Gerard, waving off the apology with his hand. Frank was in torn jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves pushed up. His familiar tattoos were almost comforting. Gerard sat on the bed, while Frank sat opposite him in the chair, keeping what looked like a safe distance between them.

“Still can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were coming,” started Frank, "I could’ve gotten you backstage or something.”

“I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it -- it was your night,” said Gerard, trying to keep his voice casual, when in reality, backstage was the last place he wanted to be. He never could control himself backstage, or on stage for that matter.

“It was such an intense show, Frank. I dunno how you sing and play guitar at the same time, man. I still can’t get the hang of it,” Gerard laughed a little.

“Nah,” dismissed Frank, “Don’t worry, I suck at being a frontman. I dunno what the fuck to do with my hands when I’m not playing! I gotta say, you made it look way easier than it is,” he laughed a little too, his mouth curving into a smile. “You know i saw the stuff from Leeds and Reading --”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah!” Frank’s eyes were almost sparkling, “I mean, you haven’t even released a CD yet but all those kids were so into it. No better feeling, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, totally. Everyone’s been so supportive of everything since...” Gerard shifted his gaze to the wall behind Frank.

“I know! I didn’t know what to expect really, how the fans would react, y’know? But so far it’s been really positive,” finished Frank, knowing exactly what Gerard had wanted to say, and what he wanted to hear.

Frank’s gaze was steady on Gerard and he felt it all over, just like at the show. A small silence loomed between them for a moment before Frank spoke.

“Gerard?”

“Yeah?”

“What are you doing here?”

Gerard was almost taken aback. he looked at his hands and bit his bottom lip, “What? Oh, I, uh…” he tried to spin a line about wanting to go home to Jersey, see his parents, etc, etc, but Frank just chuckled a little, shaking his head. Gerard looked up to meet his eyes.

“Gerard. You HATE planes -- you wouldn’t get on one unless you absolutely had to.”

 _Well fuck,_ thought Gerard. He had started to sweat again.

“So. Tell me,” said Frank pointedly, “ what are you doing here?”

Gerard opened his mouth and then closed it again, ruffling his hand through his hair. He tried to laugh, but the sound twisted up in his throat. Frank was leaning back in his chair, drumming his fingers on the armrest and waiting for Gerard’s answer.

“...yeah. I just, I…” Gerard’s mouth wasn’t working like it should and nothing coherent would come out. His face felt hot. His entire body, actually. Frank sighed, his face darkening slightly.

“You never were good with straightforward, you know that?”

“No,” said Gerard quietly, almost like he was realizing it for the first time, “No, I'm not.” His gaze dropped back to his hands. 

It wasn’t ever easy for Gerard. No, maybe that wasn’t true. It just never was easy when it came to Frank. Gerard could get up in front of ten thousand kids and command a stage better than anyone else, but with Frank, he never felt in command. Sure it was easier when there were pills and alcohol involved, but since Gerard had gotten clean and sober, it was harder to sort out his feelings, to sort out the words. Not like he had been an outgoing person to begin with. Not like Frank, who always spoke his mind, who wasn’t afraid to tell it to you straight.

“Look man, i get it,” said Frank suddenly. “If you just came here because you needed some closure or something--”

“What? No! Come on Frank, that’s not why--” he tried to explain, but Frank cut him off.

“The bottom line, _Gerard_ ,” he exaggerated the vowels, “is that you came here for YOU. Don’t try and spin it any other way.”

Gerard sat stunned. his lips were still parted, trying to trace words that wouldn’t leave his mouth.

“It was always about you, y’know that?” continued Frank, “when you needed me, I was there -- no questions asked. But when I needed you, where the fuck were you, man? Oh, that’s right, you moved across the fucking country like some bullshit celebrity.” His eyes were burning, but whether it was from anger or sadness, Gerard couldn’t tell.

“I think that’s a little unfair, Frank--”

“Unfair? You’re going to talk to me about unfair? Fuck you!” Frank stood up abruptly, looming over Gerard, “You don’t know the first thing about unfair. About how badly I needed you and you pushed me away. About how desperately, how--” he clenched his eyes shut and ran his hands through his hair in frustration before sitting back down, his body deflating into the chair. Neither of them spoke for a while. 

“This whole time, all these months--” began Frank slowly, “I was waiting, Gerard.”

Gerard froze, eyes downcast. He was scared that his heart would give out on him. His hands trembled slightly until he found Frank’s hand on top of his. From the chair to his knees, Frank looked up at Gerard through his hair.

“Waiting for you,” he admitted softly. Frank’s hand was warm and soft and everything Gerard remembered it to be. He missed that touch more than he wanted to admit, more than he had been trying to forget.

“I had to see you, Frankie,” Gerard’s voice was breaking as he spoke, “had to watch you, hear you sing...” Frank’s fingers curled around Gerard’s hand slowly, his face drawing nearer.

“...hear you sing for me.”

He barely managed to whisper the words when their lips met.

The kiss was sweet. Gentle. Ever since he had heard Frank’s song, watched his mouth moving under the lights at the show, Gerard’s whole body was wound up and sick with wanting. As their lips parted and Frank drew back slowly, Gerard wondered what his own face must have looked like at that moment. Miserable. Torn apart. As Frank shifted from the floor to the bed, his hands were on Gerard’s thighs, pressing them open so he could kneel inside the space on the edge of the bed, kissing Gerard as he moved. Gerard pressed back into the kiss, his hand on Frank’s neck. He could feel frank’s pulse surging like his own.

“I missed you,” breathed Gerard when their lips momentarily parted. Frank’s mouth was a soft smile, the kind of smile that he only ever showed Gerard. Tender. Bittersweet.

“What did you miss about me?” he said, voice low and dangerous in Gerard’s ear. The kind of voice that made Gerard tremble. Frank’s lips had started their way from Gerard’s ear to his throat.

“Ngh -- that smile...your voice...the way you---” his voice hitched in his throat when Frank started to suck at the tender skin at the base of his collarbone.

“That,” Gerard managed to gasp out. He knew Frank was smirking, even though he couldn’t see.

Frank gently pushed Gerard down on to the bed. His touch was so familiar, the light, yet forceful pressure of his hands. Here, Frank was always in control, in command. He kissed Gerard again with more intensity this time, opening his mouth and twisting their tongues together. Gerard had his hand tangled in the back of Frank’s head, the soft deep brown hair slipping between his thin fingers. He could feel his cock was already hard with anticipation, probably pressing obviously into Frank. Not that it mattered now.

Frank broke the kiss, pulling his flannel shirt off. His chest was covered in tattoos that Gerard never got tired of staring at, of tracing with his fingertips, right down the birds on his hips. Frank slipped his hands under Gerard’s thin t-shirt, helping him slip it off before kissing down his chest. Gerard swore under his breath when Frank sucked lightly on his nipple.

“That too,” he said, his voice ragged. Frank paid no mind and continued to trail kisses down his chest, right up to the waist of his pants. Gerard couldn’t help but moan a little. Frank’s mouth was warm and wet on his skin and it was starting to be more than he could take.

“Frankie,” he whispered.

Frank looked up at Gerard, “I missed you too, Gee,” he whispered back, “I missed you so fucking much.” Their lips met again, sweeter. Gerard could feel that Frank was hard too and it made it all the worse. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had sex with his wife, but he remembered the last time he had sex with Frank.

It was supposed to be for the last time. Gerard’s hair, fiery red at the time, was long enough to get caught up in Frank’s hands when it was matted with sweat. He remembered the dim hotel room, the way Frank’s eyes shone in the dark. How his tattoos blurred into his indigo skin. Their last time had been rough, almost angry. It was all grunts and pants and primal. Maybe Frank was angry then. Maybe he knew that Gerard had meant it to be their last. After Frank shuddered into Gerard, they both collapsed on the bed. They didn’t speak after it was over -- just lay slightly apart until Frank got up to shower. Gerard wanted to say something, anything to break the terrible silence that hung over them, to get Frank to turn around and come back. But he couldn’t find the words. He wasn't supposed to find the words. The door to the bathroom shut and Gerard curled up in a ball alone. He had never felt so broken -- but he never thought that Frank felt the same way, clenching his fists tightly under the spray of hot water, both thinking that it was better this way, that it had to be this way.

His thoughts raced back to reality when Frank’s teeth dug into his neck. Gerard made a low sound and Frank bit down ever so slightly harder. His chest was warm against Gerard’s, a comforting warmth that he hadn’t felt with anyone else. Gerard slowly scraped his nails along Frank’s back and smiled when Frank trembled in pleasure.

“Fuck, Gerard,” Frank’s voice too was ragged, his fingers at the waist of Gerard’s pants, hooked into his boxers. He slid them down slowly, watching Gerard with every inch he moved. Gerard’s face was flushed, his neck turning pink. So painstakingly slow. The bastard.

“Frankie…” he whined, unable to take the slide of cloth on his cock any longer. But Frank didn’t seem to care and he took his time until finally tugging the last of fabric off Gerard’s legs. His cock stood up awkwardly and Frank ran his finger along the underside of it. Gerard moaned lightly and Frank looked pleased. He licked the tip and took it into his mouth, his tongue curling. Gerard’s toes curled too, in turn. Frank’s mouth was hot on his skin and he swore again. Frank took him further into his mouth and Gerard’s eyes rolled back in his head.

“You gotta -- slow down Frankie -- I don’t...ngh…” Gerard was failing at words, unable to fight against everything Frank was doing to him, and unable to fight against the orgasm he could feel surging inside of him. Frank’s tongue flicked around his cock and Gerard bucked, coming hot and fast into Frank’s mouth. He eased off Gerard slowly, looking pleased with himself. That is until Gerard grasped him by the hair, ramming their lips together. Frank made a desperate sound against Gerard’s lips, his hands against Gerard’s jawline. He managed to pull away from Gerard’s grasp slightly, swearing motherfucker under his breath and blindly fumbling for the belt on his jeans while kissing Gerard harder. He felt gerard’s hands on top of his own, helping to ease him out of ripped jeans and his boxers. He leaned in to kiss Gerard again, but Gerard pulled back, his eyes devouring Frank’s body.

“Fucking beautiful,” breathed Gerard, his fingertips tracing the countless lines and curves of the tattoos from Frank’s collarbone to his hips. “Lie down, let me look at you,” he said, and Frank did as he was told for once. Gerard kissed the bird on Frank’s right hip, the one with an X over its eye, before kissing the one on the left.

“I look at you Frankie, and it’s like…”

“Like what?” Frank opened one eye to look down at Gerard. There was something so tender about his face at that moment, and Frank opened the other eye to get a better look.

“...like home,” Gerard finished, “like coming home.”

Because for all the denying, for all the trying to forget, Gerard knew in his heart that Frank _was_ home. that no matter how much music and art that he made, in every note, under every line, every lyric, there was a piece of Frank. That sometimes that was the only way Gerard could feel close to him, despite everything that happened between them. Because he knew that Frank would be listening, would be watching. Waiting.

“Frank, I--” he paused slightly, biting his lip, “I’m sor--”

“Don’t,” whispered Frank, sitting up and pulling Gerard close, his face against Gerard’s throat, “just don’t.” 

So Gerard didn’t. He put his arms around Frank's small frame instead, holding him there like he might disappear if he didn't. Frank’s lips brushed Gerard’s ear, his tongue tracing down Gerard’s throat. They moved in silence, broken by an occasional moan or low, guttural noise, hands on flesh, mouth on mouth. The air turned thick and humid, and as Frank found his way inside Gerard, he savoured the sounds that Gerard made because they were just for him. 

Gerard was never good with words -- but he was always good with sounds. Honest. Raw.

Frank tried to go slow, tried to be gentle, but it was like all the anger and sadness that had consumed him over their time apart was suddenly in control of his body. Gerard moaned deep in his throat, his hand moving rapidly on his cock in time with the fierce rhythm Frank has set. He would never admit it, but Gerard liked it a little rough, liked the spikes of pain that came underneath the pleasure. Frank’s breathing was strained and he grunted as he thrust into Gerard one last time, coming hot. It was enough to push Gerard over the edge and they fell together on wrinkled sheets. 

“I’m going to take a shower,” said Frank, pressing a kiss into Gerard’s shoulder. He nodded, watching Frank walk over to the bathroom. The clock on the nightstand read 4:18. As he lay alone in bed, Gerard began to feel something like guilt and regret creep into his mind. They whispered terrible things in his ear, the same ear that Frank had whispered into. They breathed the name of his wife. Of his daughter. Of Frank. The shower’s roar had dulled and Frank stepped out of the bathroom. His hair was a beautiful mess. 

“You’re a beautiful mess,” repeated Gerard, echoing the thought in his head before blushing fiercely. Frank smiled as he lifted the thin comforter on the bed, “You should see yourself, man.” they lay together, Frank’s arm around Gerard’s waist. They lay like that for awhile. 

“You know,” said Gerard cautiously, turning to face Frank, “I could stay a few more days. we could--” 

“No,” Frank’s voice was soft, “we can’t.” 

He put his hand on Gerard’s, over his wedding ring. “You’re going to go back to California,” he continued, trying to keep his voice calm and even, “and I’m going back on tour.” 

Gerard wanted to argue. He didn't want to understand. To be rational or realistic. He tried to say this to Frank, but Frank spoke first.

"You _know_ , Gerard, just like i know. That there's no happy ending for us now." Frank's eyes never left Gerard's, and he understood then how much harder it was for Frank. How his heart was too big, too fragile for his small body. How he had left scars there. He pulled Frank to his chest, lips resting on damp hair, words he wanted to say caught in his throat. Always caught in his throat and never escaping, turning into bitter regret on his tongue. 

_fuck it._

"Frankie," his voice was so small he thought frank might not have heard, "I--"

"I know," Frank's voice was soft in the darkness, "and that's enough for me."

\--------------------------


	2. Days Like Crazy Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marriage is a tricky thing. Everything so new and wonderful at first, and then the gradual settling into routine. His wife threw herself into her art just like Gerard threw himself into his -- it wasn’t a bad thing, it was just what they did. But he found a strange distance between them as the years passed, not one born out of disinterest, but born of familiarity. It wasn’t as though he didn’t love her. _You just don’t love her like you do Frank_ said a small voice that began as a whisper and gradually became louder as the days went on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter to "All These Miles" -- set just before Gerard's US tour with flashes back to the end of "All These Miles" and to Revenge Era MCR. And Mikey's there too!

Gerard rubbed his hands through his hair for the thousandth time that day, frustrated. He sat slumped in his chair, blankly staring at the computer screen before him.

He did as he was told and went back to California. Frank did as he said and went on tour. Gerard closed his eyes, letting his mind drift back to the small Jersey motel. They lay in the darkness together, Frank’s even breathing letting Gerard know he was asleep. But sleep wouldn’t come for Gerard, which was surprisingly fine with him. He didn’t want to miss the feeling of Frank in his arms, the way he looked sleeping. His eyes drifted over Frank’s face, over every curve and line, the way his hair slipped over one eye. Gerard’s eye caught on Frank’s wedding ring and then on his own. Something like guilt, like excitement flashed through his heart, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel bad. Not yet. Not now. There would be time enough for that on the flight home. 

Bright lines of light began to appear under the curtains. The sun slowly spilled into the room, casting a thin line of white onto their faces. Frank stirred, pressing closer to Gerard, who merely held him close and away from the light. He wasn’t sure what else to do, what happened next. 

“What time is it?” mumbled Frank, eyes still shut. Gerard glanced over at the clock.

“Just turned 7,” he replied, unsure whether that was late or early. Frank resigned himself to open his eyes, “I better get going,” he said, voice quiet, lacking conviction. He remained there, pressed against Gerard’s chest for a moment longer before sitting up. Gerard sat up too, his hand trying to catch Frank’s before he could leave the bed, but missing. He was vaguely aware of Frank getting ready, pulling on clothes and combing his hair with his fingers in the mirror. It was like a dream -- the whole thing didn’t seem real. Gerard’s heart felt crushed, tethering his body to the bed. Frank had finished buttoning his shirt when he turned to Gerard, “Guess I’ll be seeing you around then. Can’t wait for the new album,” he smiled, but it wasn’t very convincing. He was never very good to lying.   
“Yeah,” Gerard heard himself say, “Thanks. It was...it was good to see you, Frank.” 

“Good to see you too, Gerard,” Frank’s hand was on the door, “Take care of yourself.”

The door shut with a heavy sound and echoed through Gerard’s ears. His hands were balled into fists around the sheets. He could hear every footstep. He shut his eyes tightly, _For the best, Gerard, for best,_ he thought desperately. Another footstep and Gerard ripped sheets from the bed, casting them away before he sprang for the door. 

“Frank!”

Down the concrete walkway, Frank jerked, turning his head with wide eyes. Gerard stood in the doorway, hair askew and cheeks flushed.

“Since when,” Gerard started, his eyes feeling hot, “since when did you care about rules anyway?” His voice was too loud, but he couldn’t will it to be any smaller. 

Frank looked down at his shoes and took a deep breath before raising his eyes to Gerard’s.

“Since you did,” he said simply. Neither took a step forward and their conversation carried through the empty space between them. Frank smiled. The words stung the thoughts out of his head and took the words from his tongue. Standing in the doorway, Gerard said nothing. 

Gerard said nothing. 

Gerard said nothing.

Frank’s figure blurred through what he thought were tears and slowly became smaller until Gerard couldn’t see him anymore. 

He played the scene through his head over and over. While waiting at the airport, when on the plane, on the drive back home. Now in his office in the harsh light of his computer. It had been a month since he had seen Frank play but the memory plagued him, haunted him. He could feel the ghost of Frank’s fingers when he lay in bed at night, feel his voice in his ears warm and wanting. Gerard let out a frustrated sound. He had so much to do with his album complete but he had been so scattered since that night. Even so, he pressed on with interviews and photoshoots and social media. But Frank’s voice always managed to find him, whispering in dark, quiet moments.

_I was waiting Gerard. Waiting for you._

_I missed you so fucking much._

_There’s no happy ending for us now._

Gerard pushed his hands through his hair again. On the screen he looked over tour dates and travel arrangements for his US tour. His eyes were fixed on one date in particular: October 23. Webster Hall, New York. He clicked the other tab on his browser. October 23. Music Hall of Williamsburg. Frnkiero andthe Cellabration. 

_Fuck._

It was like the fates had it out for him. In the middle of two very different tours, how on earth could they both end up in New York on the same night? Does Frank even know? Does it even matter? Both shows start at the same time, it’s not like they’re going to have any free time beforehand anyway. _But maybe after...no, fuck, just stop!_ He shook his head, trying to throw whatever thought he had out of his ears by force. It was going to be a long October. While various terrible, wonderful thoughts battled in his brain, he suddenly picked up his phone to call the only person who could help him sort things out. The phone rang twice before picking up.

“Hey Gerard, what’s up?” 

“Hi Mikey -- you busy?”

“Not at the moment, no,” replied Mikey, sounding rather cheerful.

“You uh, maybe want to get coffee with me?” Gerard was trying to sound casual, but he was sure that it wasn’t fooling his brother.

“Dude, do you even need to ask? I’ll meet you there.” 

“Great! Then I’ll see you over there -- thanks Mikey,” he added before hanging up. Relief. Talking to Mikey always helped.

\-------------------------------

When Gerard arrived at their usual coffee place, Mikey was already sitting in the back at a small table. He waved at Gerard, sunglasses covering his thin face and a coffee cup in his hand. Gerard ordered his own coffee before joining him. 

“Hey man,” Mikey pulled him into a small hug, careful not to make Gerard spill his coffee as he was prone to do. Mikey pulled his sunglasses off and set them next to his coffee before taking a small sip. 

“So how was Jersey?”

Gerard nearly choked on his coffee, scalding his tongue and coughing before managing to croak, “What??” Mikey laughed, patting Gerard’s back sympathetically.

“What? You think you’re the only one who gets to talk to Frank? He called me up the other day and told me all about it,” he explained, taking another prim sip. The words “all about it” hit Gerard like ice water.

“He...he did? What did he say?” His cheeks were starting to feel hot.

“Yeah. Oh, and way to not tell me you were going to Jersey,” teased Mikey, “He told me you were at his show--man, I bet it was awesome--”

“Yeah, it was -- it was really...” His mind raced back to that night. Frank’s mouth slick and open under the lights, “...like Frank,” he finally settled for. Mikey chuckled because he understood how Frank gave himself over to the music from the very first note. “It was just amazing, y’know? But then afterwards and the motel and ugh, I just messed everything up and I dunno--”

“Wait,” Mikey held up his hand to interrupt, “Motel? I didn’t hear about a motel.”

Gerard must have made a dumb face, a mixture of shock and embarrassment over his cup of coffee, “You said he told you everything!” he said hotly.

“Dude, apparently not. What the fuck happened? Don’t tell me you guys--”

Gerard buried his face in his hands and made frustrated sound.

“Oh my god you totally _did_!” Mikey looked like he was enjoying himself, not like Gerard could see with his head still buried in his arms.

“It wasn’t like that,” moaned Gerard, lifting his head slightly, “It just...I dunno, happened.” His face was bright red and he kept his eyes on the steam from his cup, “He came by the motel I was at after the show just to, y’know, hang out or whatever.” Mikey nodded, allowing Gerard time to collect his thoughts and calm down. “I think he was angry,” he continued, “angry at me y’know, for everything that happened? Angry or hurt or something, and when he confronted me about it, I just kind of froze up and then he--” Gerard paused again, unable to say the word “kiss” without feeling incredibly guilty. 

“That’s our Frank -- he’s got too much heart to stay mad at someone, especially you,” said Mikey, seeming to understand the rest, “You guys are so stupid for each other that it’s frustrating even for me.” When Gerard managed to look up, Mikey was smiling and he tried to smile too. 

“Yeah,” Gerard said softly, “That’s the problem I guess.” Though it took an excruciating amount of time, he told Mikey about the rest of the night (at least as much as he could) and how it ended.

“Does Lindsey know? That you went to Jersey to see the show, I mean?”

Gerard shook his head, “She thinks I was seeing Mom and Dad.”

Mikey sighed, screwing up his face like he always did before he was about to say something Gerard wouldn’t like. “What are you going to do?”The question hung in the air between them, slowly settling into Gerard’s mind like a fine dust. He ran his hand through his hair and merely replied, “I was kinda hoping you could help me with that.” 

Mikey had that “I was afraid of that” look on his face as picked up his cup with both hands before setting it back down.

“S’kinda up to you, dude. I mean, seems to me like Frank doesn’t want to hurt you or anyone else.”

“Then why did he push me away like that?” 

Mikey rolled his eyes, “Dude, think about it. You’ve both got families -- how many people are at stake here? I mean, you can’t help the way you feel, God knows neither of you can anyway, but like he said, there isn’t any happy ending I can see for you now. And if you think this is hard on you, just imagine how much worse it is for Frank. You should’ve heard how happy he was on the phone, man. It meant a lot that you were there for him.”

Gerard sank back in his chair, letting the words sink in. _No happy ending._ The brothers drank their coffee in quiet. Mikey wasn’t going to push Gerard to make a decision right then and there, and was used to waiting out silences. 

“We’ve both got a show...in New York...on the same day,” said Gerard slowly. His younger brother let out a sigh.

“Look Gee, I can’t tell you what to do, alright? But just-- don’t hurt him, please? Frank doesn’t deserve that, and neither do you. I’ve watched you guys since the beginning. I know that Frank would give you everything if you asked. But that doesn’t mean you have to.”

Gerard nodded, finishing his coffee. He looked at the empty mug like it might give him the answer he wanted so badly. It didn’t. 

“Just know that I’m here for you, okay? If you need another one of these talks, I’m around,” said Mikey, pulling Gerard in for another hug. The stubble on his face scratched at Gerard’s cheek, but he didn’t mind. Mikey looked happy these days, so much so that Gerard was almost jealous. It wasn’t like he wasn’t happy. He had a beautiful family that he loved dearly, he was writing music again, feeling creatively fulfilled… but he couldn’t shake what felt like a loss, a wanting somewhere inside that was raw around the edges. A feeling that grew more and more each day since he had been to Jersey. Marriage is a tricky thing. Everything so new and wonderful at first, and then the gradual settling into routine. His wife threw herself into her art just like Gerard threw himself into his -- it wasn’t a bad thing, it was just what they did. But he found a strange distance between them as the years passed, not one born out of disinterest, but born of familiarity. It wasn’t as though he didn’t love her. _You just don’t love her like you do Frank_ said a small voice that began as a whisper and gradually became louder as the days went on. He let go of Mikey, holding him at an arms’ distance. 

“Thanks Mikes -- and sorry for…” he made some kind of gesture with his hands, “all this?”

Mikey laughed, “S’what I’m here for dude, don’t need to apologize.” They waved goodbye as they got into their cars and drove off in different directions. Gerard felt slightly better, having finally told someone about it, but still didn’t have any idea about what to do, or not to do for that matter. He turned the volume up in his car and sang along loud, trying to drown out his thoughts and feelings in the music.

\----------------------

Mikey pulled the door to his car shut and sat in the front seat, pulling out his phone. He pursed his lips, debating whether he should call or text, and quickly decided that texting would be better.

_frnk srsly? motel?_

His fingers paused, a smile spreading across his lips before he hit “Send”. That’ll teach Frank to leave out important details like that on phone calls.

\---------------------

Suddenly everything became a whirlwind. Gerard’s new album was due out and everyday brought interviews and photo shoots, final touches and meetings. Gerard welcomed the rush, it gave him something to occupy his mind, although he couldn’t help but feel small pangs of jealousy everytime he saw pictures of Frank with his bandmates. It made him remember the times they had spent cramped up in a van together, Frank always there to look after Gerard who was always a little messed up. He tried to chalk it up to nostalgia for the old days, he tried to stop glaring at the arms around Frank’s shoulders, he tried to---

He rubbed his eyes. It wasn’t quite light yet and he was the only one up in the house. Stacks of comics and books were scattered around his office and his phone lay atop a small sketch. His US tour was set to begin in two days. It would be another whirlwind once he was on the road and there was still so much he hadn’t prepared. Five shows until New York. He picked up his phone and the small sketch slipped to the ground, falling delicately to the floor. Heavy lines and hurried details of Frank’s face stared up at him. Gerard picked it up gingerly, setting it on his desk for a moment. He had 5 or 6 more of them tucked in various books and folders where no one would go looking. Frank was all he could draw lately and he pressed the picture into another art book before setting it on his desk. 

Gerard leaned back in his chair, stretching out his back. He wondered where Frank was, what he was doing. Two days before tour. Tour. The very word was soaked in sentiment and memory. Eyes closed, Gerard’s mind started to run through old reels of memories, flashing quick with ghosts of faces and hands and venues. 

He can hear the sounds of crowd from backstage and he starts to fidget back and forth in the wings. Ray’s off somewhere getting his fingers warmed up for the show and Mikey has vanished, looking for a bathroom somewhere. Gerard tries to shake out his hands and his legs but it’s not working because it’s his first show sober, which pretty much makes it his first show ever, when he thinks about it. 

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!_

His thoughts have been stuck on the word for the past hour. It’s terrifying, but even more terrifying is the sudden clap of a hand on his shoulder, sending Gerard two feet into the air.

“Fuck!”

“Dude,” says Frank giggling, “Sorry. You okay?” He’s got that annoying adorable grin on his face, skeleton gloves on his hands.

“Yeah--no--fuck, Frank, I dunno,” Gerard shoved his hands through his hair again, “I dunno if I can do this man, I mean, I’ve never done this...y’know, not drunk.” Frank grinned even more, if that was possible, putting his hands on Gerard’s shoulders. His eyes were bright and wide and reassuring. Gerard had come such a long way, and a lot of that was because Frank was there to pick him up when he couldn’t walk straight, there to help him come back down. Gerard didn’t understand why anyone would put up with him, but Frank did. He was there every goddamn time.

“So what?” Frank said, “Just go out there and kill it like you always do, baby.” He winked in emphasis, giving Gerard’s shoulders a final clap before letting go. He was practically beaming, eyes ringed with messy red eyeshadow. “Let’s fucking kill it, Gee.”

Gerard found himself smiling too, and when the band took the stage, they fucking killed it.

Flash. 

They’d been on the road forever, and the only thing worse than sleeping in a bus was being unable to sleep in a bus. Gerard had been staring at the low ceiling of his bunk for what felt like hours. He felt the bus turn to the right and then lurch to a stop. Must be making a rest stop -- it must’ve been 2 or 3 in the morning by now. He turned on his side, picking up a book he had started and gave up on 4 times earlier, but stopped when he felt something brush past him. He peeked through the curtains to see Frank walking off the bus. 

Frank had this thing out being clean. He never felt human until he had had a shower, but unfortunately on tours like this, showers are few and hard to come by, so he usually got off at each rest stop to see if he could find one. Gerard never really minded the lack of showers too much, preferring to move as little as possible once settled in, even if he didn’t sleep. He flipped through the pages of his book, barely registering the words until he heard footsteps again. His index finger drew the curtain back an inch and there was Frank looking rather pleased, cheeks slightly pink and his hair still damp. He was about to walk past Gerard when he noticed the gap in the curtain and, before Gerard could figure out what was happening, swooped down and pushed his face through the cloth.

“Voyeur,” he said, voice low and giddy before pushing himself into the small bunk.

“Fra--” Gerard quickly lowered his voice, “The fuck? Get out of here!” Frank smelled clean, his body still warm and skin feeling like new. It was causing Gerard a very painful erection which he couldn’t exactly hid in his present lodging conditions, Frank all shoved up next to him.

“Not a fucking chance,” said Frank, digging the book out from under his back and tossing it at Gerard, “read me a bedtime story?”

“Fuck you.” Gerard was smiling despite himself. 

“You wish,” countered Frank. 

“You’re like a...shower-drunk or something, I think you need help.” Gerard pretended to be interested in his book while desperately trying to hide the massive hard-on that Frank was causing.

“You oughta take one once and awhile, ‘do you wonders.”

“Just try it once, that’s what they all say.”

Frank smirked, “Yeah, right.” His eyes were closed, his damp hair on Gerard’s shoulder. He smelled so incredibly good -- not in the soap way, but in the Frank way, like cloves and cinnamon, like…

Gerard cast his eyes at Frank, his face so close, so still. They were bandmates and brothers, but Gerard was able to suppress wanting to be more. On stage, he grew bold, touching Frank like he was his own. The adrenaline of the show making him bold, honest. But this wasn’t a show, it was the tour bus flying down the highway in the middle of the night. Gerard became aware of his racing heart, the sound loud in his ears. Maybe he had been in love with Frank all along. But Frank was...Frank. Tell it to you straight Frank. Everything that Gerard wished he could be most days. He brought an unsure hand around Frank’s shoulder and Frank pushed his face into Gerard’s neck. He smoothed Frank’s hair, keeping his hand above his ear. There was something reassuring about it. About Frank being there beside him. And it was enough for Gerard for now.

Flash.

It was the last hotel night on the tour. Mikey lugged his bag into the room while Gerard the small lamp on the table on and off just because he could.

“Dude, hotels rock,” said Mikey going over to join his brother.

“You can say that again, can’t remember the last time I slept in a goddamn bed,” agreed Gerard, clicking the lamp off. 

“You coming out tonight?” Mikey was smoothing his hair in the mirror. 

“Nah, I’ve got this great idea that I wanna get down before it goes away,” he already had his head buried into a sketchbook and Mikey could see his pen moving in broad strokes.

“Right,” Mikey replied, giving Gerard a quick hug that startled him, “I’ll catch you later then Gee.” Gerard merely waved him off with his free hand, “Yeah, be careful Mikes, and have fun.”

Mikey flashed him a smile that said _oh, I will_ before heading toward the door. Gerard focused his attention back to his sketchbook. He had all these ideas that came to him on tour and each page was covered in scattered sketches, some for the new album, some just for him. Frank’s tattooed hands or too-wide eyes in the corner of most. 

“Hey Gee?” Mikey’s voice brought Gerard back to reality and he looked up over the sketchbook as if to say _what?_ It got through to Mikey who was chewing his bottom lip like he wasn’t sure if he should go continue or not.

“So...are you and Frank--” Mikey didn’t even have to finish his sentence. Gerard knew. “I mean, that kiss was just...kinda intense.”

Gerard blushed hard at the memory. At the show, he had grabbed Frank by the hair and roughly smashed their lips together. He didn’t think Frank would _stop playing_ to put his arms around Gerard and lean back into the kiss. Gerard pushed him away a little harder than he wanted to, feeling almost scared. Like Frank knew how he felt about him. Mikey watched Gerard’s face turn various shades of pink before giving a nervous laugh, “Nah, you know what? Forget I mentioned it. Frank’s an awesome guy, so, yeah. That’s all, I guess.” He gave Gerard a little wave before walking out. 

Gerard sighed, falling back onto the bed. He felt like he had been holding his breath while Mikey was talking. But he also felt like he had Mikey’s blessing or whatever now. Staring at the ceiling, he replayed the kiss over and over in his head, the small pressure of Frank’s arms on his waist, the way his mouth tasted. Gerard’s hands wandered to his jeans, his cock already starting to harden. He wondered how Frank’s hands would feel on his cock, those callused fingers sliding up and down…He pushed his sketchbook to the side and got up because if he was going to jerk off in a hotel room, he may as well give himself the luxury of jerking off in the shower.

Peeling his clothes off, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His skin was too white, his hair a dishevelled mess. As he stepped into the shower, it felt so good on his travel weary skin. He quickly got to work, imagining Frank there too, wet and glistening, his red mouth pressed up against Gerard’s throat. _Fuck_ thought Gerard, letting a small moan escape his mouth. He had fantasized about Frank before, and sometimes cursed his vivid imagination for it. His hand moved faster around his cock and he wondered what Frank would think of him if he saw him like this, hard and wanting. He’s probably say something like…

“Mother _fucker_.”

Gerard’s eyes flew open, his hand stopped.

Frank was standing in the doorframe of the bathroom, his eyes a little blurry and wide. Gerard was frozen.

“Frank?! What the fuck?”

“Do you always shower like this Gee? Cause I gotta say...that’s fucking hot.” Frank sauntered inside, right up to the glass shower door, and said in a low voice, “I got a card key from Mikey ‘cause he wanted to switch rooms.” He pressed the door open in his clothes, the water hitting his back. His smile was fiendish. A smile Gerard recognized as the slightly-buzzed-Frank-smile.

“You’re drunk,” he said gently, putting his hands on Frank’s shoulders but missing when Frank suddenly fell forward to kiss him roughly. His mouth was open and messy and Gerard loved it. When he pulled back, he put his mouth to Gerard’s ear, “That kiss earlier? Fucking incredible.” Gerard’s cock was pressing into the wet cloth of Frank’s jeans and it made Frank smirk as he took it in his hands, giving it a few tugs before letting go. Gerard whined slightly before Frank kissed his throat, giving him a small bite before he started to peel off his clothes. It was harder than he thought since they were soaked through and Gerard helped pull the fabric from his arms, letting them fall to the floor with a hard, wet sound. His tattoos were exposed, skin slick and soft. Gerard couldn’t help himself, his hands tracing every line with this mouth close behind. Frank gave a low moan, his cock hardening under the warm water.   
“Fuck Gee,” Frank managed to gasp out, taking Gerard’s hands in his own, “I fucking waited for this.” He was smiling when he said it, looking Gerard in the eyes, “Waited for I don’t even know how long.” His hands slide down to Gerard’s cock as he ran a finger along the underside and making Gerard shiver. “I kept wondering how you’d feel, how you’d _sound_ ,” his fingers wrapped around Gerard’s cock and he made fast work of making Gerard’s knees buckle. 

Gerard steadied himself, watching Frank’s tattooed hands move faster under the water. It was nothing like he imagined -- it was so, so much better, and in no time, he was coming into Frank’s hands before pulling him into another kiss. 

“Frankie,” he whispered, breaking the kiss. 

“I knew you were waiting too, Gee,” breathed Frank as he turned the water off and pulled Gerard out by the hand. He didn’t bother with towels or drying off, he simply led Gerard to the bed. The sheets clung to their damp skin, fingers tangled in dark messy hair. It was the first time that they made love. Frank was gentle, careful. Gerard remembered nodding in affirmation before Frank slide his finger into him. The small pain and the immense pleasure. He remembered Frank watching his reactions and moving at Gerard’s pace, telling him he was gorgeous and how god he felt. He remembered Frank’s smoldering eyes as he thrust into him again and again before he gave a wretched moan and came. He slowly pulled himself away from Gerard before collapsing in his arms. 

“We shoulda done this sooner,” said Frank finally, the content grin on his face mirroring Gerard’s. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, far from it,” he replied, smoothing Frank’s hair.

“I think I’ve been in love with you since we met.” The words came suddenly, hurriedly from Frank’s lips. Love. Gerard pulled him closer, “I think I was too.”

Flash.

Frank and his gigantic heart. His pure and faithful heart. 

Flash.

Gerard and his anxieties. His insecurity and fear.

Flash.

Frank trying, Gerard refusing.

Flash.

A hurried backstage wedding. Eyes smoldering with something else this time. Frank’s broken voice echoing in his head as he said “I do.”

Flash. 

The first rays of sun filtered into the room and Gerard opened his eyes. He felt like he had been dreaming instead of remembering and was suddenly exhausted. The coffee cup on the table was cold when he touched it and he dragged himself out of the chair, the cup in his hands. On his desk, the sketch of Frank peeked out from pages of the thick artbook, cover gleaming under the sun. He set the coffee cup down again and pressed the artbook back into the shelf.


	3. What It's Like, Or How It's Going To Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter in All These Miles. Apologies in the massive gap between this chapter and the last -- but I hope the wait will be worth it. Thank you all for waiting.
> 
> Set Post-MCR.
> 
> \------------
> 
> “Fucking Mikey Way, where the fuck are you?” The phone doesn’t respond, merely displaying the time and date in a calm and rational way that irritates Frank even more. He had better things to do than waiting out in the hot California sun for Mikey-fucking pick-you-up-when-you-get-here-Way, or rather, Mikey-fucking-NOT-pick-you-up-when-you-get-here-Way. Frank shifts his bag from his shoulder to the ground. Mikey. This is all his fault.
> 
> \------------

Frank pulls out his phone for the 8th time.

“Fucking Mikey Way, where the fuck are you?” The phone doesn’t respond, merely displaying the time and date in a calm and rational way that irritates Frank even more. He had better things to do than waiting out in the hot California sun for Mikey-fucking pick-you-up-when-you-get-here-Way, or rather, Mikey-fucking-NOT-pick-you-up-when-you-get-here-Way. Frank shifts his bag from his shoulder to the ground. Mikey. This is all his fault.

\-------------------

Mikey called him up saying that since you’re done touring, you should come hang out in LA, meet his fiancee, go to Disney, you know, chill. Frank had been touring since last year, finally finishing up a year plus later, and found himself with a rather open schedule of possibilities. His label wasn’t pressuring him for a second album, fully satisfied with waiting for whatever came next, if anything. It was the exact attitude that Frank needed, that he thought all artists needed. But it also left a very harrowing blank in where to go next. He’d spent a month making lunches for his kids, playing with his dogs, all the things he missed so desperately while he was on tour. But eventually the itch found him. That wanderlust kind of itch that sinks into your bones and won’t let go. And like a sign from the Heavens, he gets the call from Mikeyway. 

Mikey plays it up like they haven’t seen each other in light years, when in reality, they saw each other at one of Frank’s California shows. Fuck, Frank remembers that night. Mikey was so excited to see Frank playing on stage again, and even more excited to introduce his then-girlfriend, now-fiancee. Frank could see why. After the show, Mikey pulls Frank into a hug. Under his hands, Frank can feel how much healthier Mikey’s gotten since the last time they met. More solid, grounded. He doesn’t say it, but he thinks Mikey gets it anyway.

“Frank, man, fuckin’ amazing,” says Mikey, letting Frank go finally.

“Thanks man, it’s good to see you. See you’re still rocking the tank top look,” he says, nodding to the excessively open tank top hanging loose on Mikey’s frame.

“Fuck yeah,” says Mikey, “Can’t rock this shit back in Jersey.”

“Shit no,” and Frank’s laughing with Mikey just like old times. 

“You know,” starts Mikey, hesitation stopping him there as his bites his lip a little and twists his hands a bit. He takes a small step forward, his head bowed slightly before continuing in a small voice that Frank can barely hear over the noise backstage, “Y’know, Gerard really wanted to be here tonight.”

Frank almost rolls his eyes but settles for a “Pfft, right,” and tries to move on to the next topic but Mikey continues.

“No,” Mikey’s looking up at Frank now, “I mean it. He really, _really_ wanted to be here, Frank. But he’s...he’s Gerard, y’know?”

“Yeah...unfortunately I do.”

“He didn’t want to cause a scene, give Twitter another reason to go batshit insane or whatever, y’know?” Not like Mikey coming to the show isn’t going to start a shitstorm, but he has a point. 

“Yeah, I get it,” says Frank. And he does get it, but it doesn’t mean that he didn’t half wish that Gerard had shown up.

That was the last time Frank spoke about Gerard to anyone. Not to say that he didn’t think about him. 

Frank had just settled in back home after tour, trying to fit his life into some sort of schedule but being unable to right away. He was always tired during the day and wired at night, which didn’t really fit with the whole three kids and 400 dogs lifestyle he was trying to lead, but still, he was trying. Most nights he’d head down to his basement studio and try to make sense of the countless voice memos and lyrics that he’d accumulated on the road, but some nights, nights like this, found Frank with his guitar in his lap slumped into his chair. The weight of the guitar was so familiar, it was almost like a blanket, warm and comforting. He’d been working on some riffs but not making much progress, and eventually, he gave up. He looked aimlessly around the studio that he tried to keep somewhat tidy but always ended up somewhere near roughly organized chaos. 

Stacks of old battered notebooks mixed with speakers and odds and ends from sound systems lay in no particular order around him. The notebooks were of varying sizes with battered spines and bookmarked pages, all filled ideas and poems and anything that happened to spark in his brain in all his years on the road. He liked to reread them sometimes, pulling them all out of the large filing cabinet he kept down here, like he had done that night. They were like letters from his past self. Frank shifts in his chair before pulling the guitar off of his lap and setting it down gently. He stretches out his arms and gets up, vaguely wondering what time it is before walking over to the filing cabinet. By the way that the whole room is silent, he feels like it’s pretty late. Not even the fucking dogs are making noise, if that was even possible. The three drawers are filled with what would look like junk to anyone else -- rocks, picks, backstage passes, papers, pictures, paperclips, a thread-bare patch, anything under the sun that ever meant anything to Frank. Almost curiously, he opens the second drawer, fingers skimming over the tops of plastic figures, what looks like the stomped remains of a set list, and stopping at a strangely kept-together stack of photos. 

The stack is neat, maybe 2 inches high, with the actual picture part turned face down. Holding it all together is a rather aged looking rubberband, the kind that snaps in two the minute you try and take it off, but he does anyway. In the middle of the silence, he holds the stack of pictures in his hands and turns it over. 

Gerard.

He’s sitting in a chair, hunched over something. Frank can almost hear the camera click in his mind from when he took the picture himself. 

Gerard.

Back to the camera, again, engrossed in something on the table.

Gerard.

Caught in some kind of moment with a small smile on his face, crooked teeth shining through.

Gerard. 

White close-cropped hair and porcelain skin, leaning against a black painted wall. The sharp line of his nose like he had been carved from ivory. His eyes are cast downward, shoulders drawn tightly into a curve, his arms tight around himself. It was the only picture that Frank took at the Paramore Mansion in the middle of the darkest time they suffered together. No, not together. They were all suffering separately. Mikey had left. Ray was consumed by the guitar. And Gerard was consumed by everything. There was a dark monster that lurked in his heart, of that Frank was sure. But that monster was never tangible to Frank before those times. Tangible is the only way he can think to describe it. There was no difference in the way Gerard looked, but more how he _felt_ , the way his eyes didn’t seem to reflect the light. 

Didn’t matter how many different drug cocktails they prescribed him, they were never enough to keep the monster at bay. One minute Gerard would be fine, would feel fine, and then suddenly wouldn’t. The monster would suddenly spring forward, shouting, violent, seething. It’s one thing to know that someone you love it sick, but it’s completely another to try and _understand_ it. Gerard shut him out for days, only to appear in the middle of the night with tear stained eyes and clammy hands, hands that begged to be held. And so Frank did. The next day, Gerard might be better. But it was only a matter of time before the inky black began to crawl into his heart and tear everything apart again. Exhausting. Mentally, physically, utterly. The darkest times. 

But you wouldn’t know that from the otherworldly beauty and grace that was Gerard, standing there in the picture. 

Frank takes one last look at the picture before moving on.

Gerard, reading a comic on the bus.

Gerard, papercup of coffee at his lips.

 _Fuck, they can’t all be Gerard, can they?_

Turns out there are some pictures of Frank and Gerard together too. Frank sits on the floor, going through every shot, every frame, something swelling in his chest raw and broad. He finds himself laughing a little at Gerard’s stupid pretty face as it stares back at him, ringed with bright red makeup. Frank almost misses that dirty, greasy puppy of a human that Gerard was for so many years. Almost. Gerard was a fucking loose cannon, barrelling into anything and anyone, leaving a trail of destruction and grime wherever he went. But he was still Gerard, sweet and honest and broken in all the right places. 

The pictures progress along a timeline, though Frank doesn’t feel like it’s something he would do, but whatever. The room is silent aside from the small noise of glossy paper on paper. All those fucking hair colors and uniforms and pageantry --- it’s all so fucking Gerard, and the tight feeling his chest starts to become oppressive. Until he hits the last picture, where it’s just him and Gerard with his bright cherry red hair and sharp, thin face, pressed against Frank’s cheek. Frank was holding the camera, trying to fit both their faces in, when Gerard nuzzled into Frank’s cheek, his face scrunched up in a ridiculous grin. 

At the time, Frank had no idea that My Chem would be ending only a few months later. 

At the time, Frank had no idea that this would be the last picture he would take with Gerard.

At the time, Frank was just happy.

Until that fucking phone call, that is.

\----------------------

Frank is still post-epic-Deathspells-set buzzed, swinging around the corner with loud movements, the towel around his neck swinging wildly with him, laughing at nothing in particular. You’d think he was drunk if you didn’t know him and didn’t see the killer set he’d just finished. He hadn’t so much as picked up his phone when it rang -- the fuck? Since when does anyone call _anyone_ anymore? He pauses to look at the name on the screen and is thrown aback even more. Since when does Mikeyway call anyone, like, ever? The post-show buzz immediately halts and turns into a cold, sick feeling that crawls over his skin because if Mikey had something to say, he’d text it. Frank’s going through about 300 hundred nightmare scenarios as he finally picks up.

“Mikes…?” He’s half expecting to hear sirens or gunshots in the background. Instead, there’s just Mikey’s voice.

“Hey Frank, have a good show?”

Mikey’s tone is flat, but that’s nothing new. No screaming. No sirens. The knot in Frank’s stomach starts to loosen slightly.

“Yeah, was fucking awesome, thanks….?”

“Good...good.”

There’s a pause. Frank wants to ask why Mikey’s making small talk but also really _doesn’t_ and is stuck with the words hanging on for dear life in his throat. He thinks about maybe coughing or something but MIkey beats him to it. 

“Yeah um, do you think,” starts Mikey, snapping Frank out his mental meltdown of to speak or not to speak. “Do you think you could come down to the studio? Not today,” he adds, rushed, “But like tomorrow? You don’t have a show tomorrow, right?”

“The studio? Like the LA Studio?” 

“Yeah, we’re--me and Gerard and Ray--we wanted to have a meeting, and figured since you were already in California anyway--”

 _Meeting? Since when do we have fucking meetings?_ The thought is panicked as it speeds through his head.

“Oh, uh, sure, I guess. Shouldn’t be that bad of a drive, what time abouts now?”

Mikey covers the phone with his hand or shirt or something that rustles on the other end, again, what the fuck? The sound rustles again before Mikey comes back on the line with something about noonish. Frank agrees and is about to hang up but can’t stop the nagging voice in his head and his own curiosity gets the better of him.

“Not that I don’t love hearing your voice Mikes but... “ he pauses and can almost see Mikey giving his phone a look on the other side before giving shaking his head a little, “nah, forget it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The knot in his stomach stays tied and he shoves his phone a little more violently than he means to into his shoulder bag. 

That knot keeps twisting itself tighter as Frank speeds down the highway to LA. He’s got something loud and aggressive playing but none of it seems to reach his ears. Mikeyway fucking calls him about a meeting. That’s Gerard’s job, if anyones. If they ever had meetings, that is. 

Maybe Gee just wants to discuss the next record. Maybe Ray’s got some new godlike guitar riff that he needs everyone to hear right this second? Maybe Mikey...I dunno, got fucking engaged or something. Why you always gotta assume the worst? 

An hour or so and a million different make-up-your-own-band-disaster-stories later, he’s pulling into the studio and recognizes Ray’s car and Gerard’s car already parked nearby. Who’dve thought Frank would be the one to be fashionably late? Well, as fashionable as jeans and an oversized cardigan can be anyway.

When he gets inside, Mikey, Gerard, and Ray are all sitting on a low couch, Mikey and Gerard looking at something on a phone. Ray is the first to see Frank come in.

“Hey Frank,” he says, pushing off the couch and giving Frank a small hug. 

“Ray, hey man, sorry I’m late, kinda didn’t think you’d all show up on time.”

“Hey, I can be on time!” Through Ray’s impressive curls, Frank can see Mikey’s face doing something that’s probably supposed to be a pout but definitely falls short. Ray lets go of Frank and Mikey takes his place, giving Frank about as much of a hug as could be expected from someone who weighs as much as a toothpick. 

“Not my fault you have your own fucking timezone that’s like an hour behind normal people-time.”

“Fucker.” 

“Yeah, you know, Central time, Pacific time, Mikeyway-time--”

Mikey gives him the finger, smiling despite himself. Gerard hasn’t moved from the couch, and when Frank looks over, he’s not even looking up. 

“What? No hug for me Gee?” Frank says, casually (or as casually as possible) looking over at Gerard’s shoulders. The red has started to fade into a strange pinkish color and falls over his face so that Frank can’t see his eyes. His fingers are laced together over a crossed knee, almost like he was praying. Mikey and Ray look over at Gerard too, a sudden quiet coming over the room. Frank is immediately aware of the shift in tension and it sets his heart on edge. 

“Dude, what--” he looks to Mikey and Ray desperately, hoping that they have just as little clue as he does. That one of them will slap Gerard on the back like yeah man, what the fuck? Maybe shake Gerard’s shoulders and he’ll snap awake like oh man, I dozed off, sorry, so about the new album.

But Mikey and Ray are silent, both averting their gaze from Frank’s.

The tension is unbearable for Frank, which means it has to be that much worse for Gerard. Frank tries to play it cool, trying to make himself laugh a little as he continues.

“Okay, uh, so I’m here, so, meeting or whatever?” He looks around the room for a guitar or a bass or anything remotely musical but finds nothing. The sweat that had started on his neck starts to slide down his back and it’s really, really uncomfortable.

After what feels like the longest minute of Frank’s life, Gerard finally lifts his head. He looks like shit, like he hasn’t slept or eaten in seriously months. He pinches the bridge of his nose before opening his eyes, long eyelashes getting lost in the pinkish hair that falls over them. His eyes meet Frank’s for a fleeting moment before his eyelashes fall halfway and his gaze shifts to the floor. 

“We’re done,” Gerard says quietly, voice so low that Frank can barely register it. The tension in the room crescendoes violently, the quiet roaring in Frank’s ears. 

“Excuse me?” he says less like a question and more like a threat, his voice sharper than he perhaps intended, and Gerard doesn’t lift his gaze when he repeats in the same muted voice, 

“We’re done, Frank. The band is over.”

Out of all the nightmare scenarios that went careening through his mind all through the night and down the long highway, this one never crossed his mind for even a fraction of a second. Drugs, sure. Cancer, sure. Car crashes, okay. Gerard fucking pregnant, why not. 

Everything but this. 

A cold flash surges through Frank’s body.

“The fuck it is!” The roaring tension finds its way into Frank’s voice and he’s shouting, “What the fuck Gerard? You can’t just--just---fucking end the band because you fucking want to!”

“It’s not just him, Frank.”

Frank whirls around to face Ray, standing at a small (safe) distance away. 

“We’ve been talking,” Ray continues, passively staring through Frank rather than at, “about things since the end of the last album, and where to go from here, and--”

“No one’s been fucking talking to me!”

“Because we all knew this is how you’d take it!” Ray never raises his voice, and even though his voice isn’t exactly a booming threat, it’s still stern enough to send a shock through Frank’s tense body. He’s in fight or flight mode now, and mostly looking for a fight, so if that’s what Ray wants, then that’s what he’ll get.

“Fuck you!” Frank spits, “So you go behind my back about OUR fucking band? Fuck you!” Frank’s in Ray’s space and even though Ray is a full head plus taller than he is, he shoves with all he has against Ray’s massive shoulders.

Ray’s eyes narrow as he crosses his arms in front of his chest.

“Nice, Frank.” Ray’s voice is tight, the kind of voice that none of them ever hear except when Frank is being an exceptional asshole. But even then, it never lasts more than 2 seconds before Frank backs off like the good puppy he is, and while Ray’s not going to hit him, he might headbutt the fuck outta him. At least that’s what Mikey’s thinking, standing there, arms dangling useless at his sides, unsure of what to do and Gee’s gone catatonic or whatever with his eyes focused somewhere on his boots. Frank’s not backing down. He’s 2 inches from Ray’s face and still shouting.

“That all you got? _Nice, Frank?_ How about a _sorry_ Frank? How about a--” 

“How about,” Mikey interrupts, pulling lightly on Ray’s still securely folded arms, “you and me go get some coffee for everyone?” The light pulling doesn’t seem to be coming through so he tugs harder until Ray’s glaring stops and he looks at Mikey like he’s just apparated in out of nowhere. Frank opens his mouth to scream something but Mikey cuts in first.

“Don’t. Later.” The look in his eyes is sincere, pleading, even if his voice is flat and even, and Frank just glares at him in return. 

The door shuts with a soft click and Frank wishes there WERE some instruments around because he feels like fucking something up. Like destroying things. Like violence. He can’t remember the last time he felt like this, and fucking Gerard is still just _sitting_ there. That’s when the last bit of reason snaps in Frank’s heart and he grabs Gerard roughly, one hand on his shoulder and the other with a fist full of hair, forcing his head up. Gerard’s eyes never leave the floor.

“The fuck is your deal? Fucking--look at me, motherfucker!” Frank yanks harder on Gerard’s hair, trying to drag his gaze up to his own. Gerard doesn’t even wince. He just sits there, his face hard and distant. 

“All that shit about being brothers and family and fucking---” he searches for a word that might describe them. Lovers? No. Something more. Something sincere. But he can’t find one word to sum it up so he goes on anyway, “and you never said one fucking word to me? Jesus Gee, what the fuck I ever done to you? Fuck! Fucking say something you asshole! 12 fucking years! Christ!”

The seething rage and hurt inside Frank grows and grows, tightening his grip on Gerard. 12 years together. The longest Frank had ever stuck with a band, now that he thinks about it. Gerard should know what that fucking means.

“I’m sorry.”

Gerard’s voice is still quiet, but it’s even and strong. He lifts his eyes to Frank’s.

“I’m sorry,” his voice is cold when he repeats, “it’s over.” Frank lets go of his hair, watching several strands come slipping down. And that’s it. Gerard makes no excuse, offers no time to talk, simply states his fact and nothing more. The rage that had consumed Frank like wildfire suddenly cools, bringing an anguishing pain with it. He stands half bent over Gerard, momentarily unsure whether he’s going to punch that motherfucker in the face or fall crying into his arms. Gerard makes the choice for him when he gets up and leaves.

The sound of the door closing rings in Frank’s ears.

When Mikey and Ray return, the room is empty.

\-----------------------

Frank’s vision is blurred, tears sliding off his nose and onto Gerard’s face printed on the glossy photo paper. His shoulders are shaking with it, trying to muffle the sounds even though no one will hear them in the basement at this ungodly hour. He throws that stack of pictures at the filing cabinet, every moment, every emotion scattering in an instant upon impact. No one ever gave him a straight answer or a reason. Even so, he was able to forgive Mikey, and forgive Ray. It was Gerard that he had yet to honestly forgive. Gerard, who knew every secret Frank had. Gerard, who Frank gave his heart to time and again, despite the way it hurt every single time. 

The tears that he couldn’t find to cry two years ago come heavy on his eyelashes, welling over onto his cheek, tracing the lines that Gerard had touched. He thinks back to that night after his first show with the Cellabration in that run down motel. Maybe Gerard _was_ just trying to make amends, fuck if he knew. Suddenly showing up after a show, what was Frank supposed to do? 

He heaves himself up to his knees, the scattered pictures catching his eye briefly before he picks up his guitar and turns his back on them.

\----------------------------

This is all Mikeyway’s fault, Frank thinks for the 800th time as he hits his phone to call Mikey _again_ with no answer _again_. He’s pretty sure that if the like 40 text messages he sent aren’t sending a clear enough message, then maybe 40 phone calls will. Okay, not 40, but enough. He’s been waiting it out at the airport for an hour, debating just getting into a taxi and saying “Mikey Way’s house, please,” and the driver nodding like “Yeah man, kid’s a flake, I gotcha covered” because everyone knows Mikey Way. Frank’s actually walking over a taxi when he spots a familiar car swerving his way and thanks thank fucking god, finally! He shifts his shoulder bag a little and is about to say something like “Hey asshole!” but only manages to get out the “Hey!” part before he notices that the wrong Way is driving. 

Gerard looks equally surprised to see Frank standing there and they both sort of stare at one another like they’ve just been shipwrecked on the same island. The car window slides down and Gerard leans over the seat, peering again at Frank like he’s making sure he’s not an illusion.

“...Frank? The fuck you doing here?”

“The fuck you think I’m doing here? Your brother flaked on--” 

Three car horns rudely interrupt Frank who gives an exasperated sigh and considers flipping the car off before Gerard waves Frank inside the car. Left with little choice, Frank climbs in.

“You were saying?” Gerard’s not looking at Frank, just straight ahead at the road.

“Your brother flaked on picking me up at the airport, even though this whole thing was his idea,” Frank’s not looking at Gerard either. 

“Huh. That’s weird,” Gerard pauses, like something clicked in his head, “I was supposed to be picking Mikey up from the airport just now.”

There’s a small pause before it clicks into place for Frank.

“Mother _fucker_.”

So that’s what this was all about--Mikey’s grand scheme, and now Frank is locked in a car with Gerard under the bright California sun.

Elsewhere, Mikey looks at his phone for the 40th time, texts and missed call notifications flying, and grins.

\-------------------

Gerard’s got something playing in the car but Frank doesn’t give enough of a shit to figure out what it is. There’s a palpable quiet over the music and hum of the car as it speeds toward Frank has no fucking idea where. Neither of them look at each other, though Frank is pretty sure that Gerard is sweating or twitching or something equally nerve induced.

“So uh,” Gerard’s voice sort of sputters out as he darts a quick eye to Frank, sitting with his arms decidedly crossed in the passenger seat. The words sort of hang in the air, and Gerard imagines them slowly drifting over the 20 inches or so it would take over to Frank’s ears before crashing and burning. He clears his throat after he’s sure the words have probably fallen to the floor before trying again.

“So...how was tour…?” 

Frank lets out an exasperated sigh, digging the heel of his hand into his right eye. Hard. 

“Oh my god, this is so--” he fumbles for the right word but turns up nothing and continues, “Fuck it, you know what? How about you just take me back to the airport?” _Where I can think of all the ways I’m going to throttle your fucking brother_ he adds, but he doesn’t say that outloud. How many fucking miles did he travel for this shit?

“How many fucking miles did I travel?” he repeats because he’s on a roll now, “And for what? Shitty small talk? Fuck!”

“Don’t get pissed at me, get pissed at Mikey! I’m just as much the victim here as you!”

He has a point, but Frank isn’t ready to admit defeat yet.

“Where the fuck are you driving anyway?”

“I don’t know!” Gerard does that arm flail thing before gripping the steering wheel again, “that fucker honking at us got me panicked and I just, drove, I don’t know! I--”

Frank finally takes notice of the gulping panic breaths that Gerard is taking between his mile-a-minute speech and _oh for fuck’s sake_ starts to feel sort of bad for him since Gerard is no more at fault than he is. 

“Okay, look--”

“hejustoldmehe’dbeattheairportandsoikjnowiwasrunninglatebut--”

“Gerard!” 

And Gerard’s neck snaps over to look at Frank, his eyes almost bulging out of his head.

“Eyes, on the road,” Frank is gesturing wildly at the car in front of him that Gerard seems to have momentarily forgotten. Gerard’s head snaps back to the road, but at least he’s stopped panicking.

“Look,” Frank starts again, a little softer this time, “just take me my hotel and I’ll catch a flight home tomorrow, okay?” He’s starting to feel the edges of jetlag creep into him and doesn’t have the energy to stay angry anymore. In fact, it doesn’t even matter anymore. He just wants to lie down and then he’ll think about throttling Mikey. Gerard sneaks a glance over to Frank. He’s rubbing his eyes again, shoulder bag crushed up in his lap. His hair is getting a little long again, wisps curling in all the right places---fuck, eyes on the road.

It turns out Frank’s hotel is still a while out, and that same stifling silence hangs over the car. It makes Gerard’s skin itch, he feels like he’s drowning in it. He suffers for a good five minutes before he cracks.

“God this is so awkward!”

Frank jerks in his seat at the sudden outburst of the obvious. He shoots a puzzled look at Gerard, wondering if he’s expecting a reply. He doesn’t have to wonder long.

“Sorry,” Gerard’s voice is much calmer now, soft like he really means it. “I dunno what Mikes was thinking but I’m sorry, for this, yeah.” 

Frank keeps his eyes on the zipper on his shoulder bag, “No, yeah, me too, I guess.”

“Can we please make small talk so I don’t freak out?”

“Fuck it, why not.”

So Frank tells him about his year long touring and Gerard tells him about his. It’s more routine than anything else, standard tour stories about broken gear, awful food, someone doing something incredibly stupid yet incredibly awesome at the same time. Frank even finds himself laughing a little. Even starts to wonder why he was so mad in the first place. They’re stopped at a red light and Frank shifts his glance to Gerard, catching Gerard’s eyes on him. There’s something like an electric spark in that moment, before Gerard turns his head around in the least (most) obvious way, a tinge of pink blooming on his cheek. 

For all the talk about how Gerard doesn’t age, Frank can see where he has. Not in a bad way, but where his skin is a little less pink and cherubian, where the creases in on his forehead are slightly deeper, the skin of his neck looks softer. It looks less like the toll of gravity than the toll of living in the limelight for so many years. But still, his eyes hold the same boyish sparkle as they did when he and Frank first met. That infectious glow promising mischief and adventure. Gerard swallows hard when the light turns green, pressing the gas a little harder than he wanted to, waiting for the hum of the car again before opening his mouth. 

“Mikey, he--he knows about--well, I told him--not that I meant to, it just kinda--well actually he--”

“Coherent sentences Gerard, for fuck’s sake.”

“Right, okay.” He pauses, getting the tangled words in the right order. It takes a few minutes, but Frank waits.

“Okay. Sorry. So Mikey and I got coffee after I got back--from Jersey after your show? And he knew I had been to Jersey because he said you told him, and I thought that meant that you told him, y’know, everything? So I blurted out something about a motel and Mikey’s all wait, what? And then he figures it out, ‘cause it’s fucking Mikey, and so he knows. About what happened.” Sweat starts to slide down the back of his neck as he’s talking because he hasn’t mentioned it since, even though the ghost of Frank still shows up in his dreams, as delicious as Gerard remembers. He pushes the thought from his head, quickly going on.

“I think Mikey just wants us to be--” Gerard fishes for the right word. Friends? Happy? “I dunno, cool again, I guess. I’m pretty sure he knows that he’s only one who could make you fly out here, and the only one who I wouldn’t hesitate to pick up at an airport without question.” The hotel is almost in sight. He’s running out of time.

“So can we just--be cool, again?”

Frank doesn’t say anything, not because he’s stubborn but because underneath everything, there’s that dull ache that hasn’t gone away since his world came crashing down in that LA studio. His favorite band, their band, their family, gets torn apart on top of getting walked out on with no explanation, not even a goodbye. And yeah, he admits, it’s been 2 years and he’s getting by, but fuck if there isn’t a raw spot on his heart because of it. When Gerard showed up at his first solo show, Frank thought his heart was going to shatter. It was like seeing a ghost or a figment of your imagination suddenly in the flesh, out of place in reality, and it was Frank’s last chance to say goodbye. That was all he could think about, lifting all the gear into the back of a van, on the drive to the studio, and then back to the small motel where Gerard was holed up. Closure. That’s what it was. The end of one chapter before the opening of another. He went into that motel room with every intention of tearing Gerard to angry shreds before storming out. But fuck if he’s not the biggest fucking nice guy on the planet, and fuck if Gerard doesn’t make that 1000 times worse. 

“Frank?” Gerard’s voice has a worried edge to it. Frank’s been staring straight ahead, alone with thoughts fizzing in his head. He wants to forgive him, if only so he could forget him afterwards. But he knows he won’t. Even if he does forgive him, the memories that find him in the dark will never leave him alone. For someone with such a shotty fucking memory, it’s almost a miracle how vivid and tactile those memories still are.

“I’m not saying this to be an asshole, and you’re just going to have to trust me on that one, but I can’t,” Frank’s choosing his words carefully, getting a taste for each one before putting them out, “It’s just not that easy for me. Not yet. I mean, we can sit around and laugh about stupid shit like nothing’s changed, but that’s not gonna change the fact that it has. I dunno, maybe you can deal with that, that’s you, but it’s not me.” Pause. In a small, hushed voice, like he’s afraid to admit it outloud, he finally adds, “But I want to, I really do.” Slumped against the seat, pulling his bag a little closer to his chest and lowering his head, Frank suddenly feels like he’s too exposed.

Gerard holds his breath,his eyes widening slightly at the anguish in Frank’s voice.

“I really fucking do, Gee.”

Frank doesn’t even register that they’ve been parked in the parking lot, the stillness and the silence of late afternoon warm around them. He feels so fucking vulnerable, like he’s been gutted open for everyone, for Gerard to see the feverish burning heart pounding inside his chest. A rustle of fabric lets Frank know that Gerard is leaning towards him. He doesn’t have to look to know that Gerard’s eyes are soft and remorseful, like a young boy looking at a wounded bird. Frank’s hand hovers above the door handle, fingers curled around it and ready pull, ready to run, but Gerard’s hand slips smoothly on his jaw, bringing Frank’s lips to his. The kiss is chaste, small, out of something pure. Just like the first real kiss they shared. Not the messy open-mouthed drunk kisses or the theatrical and adrenaline-tinged stage kisses, no. 

Their first real kiss, somewhere on a dark highway in the middle of the night. Frank was immersed in millionth re-read of Slaughterhouse V in the lounge when Gerard came padding in, unable to sleep. He sat on the small excuse for a couch next to Frank, his back leaning on Frank’s shoulder while he picked up a lone comic that had been lying on the table and started leafing through it. The same warm silence surrounded them, a comfortable quiet over the sound of the tour bus. Gerard had been battling in his head about how he really felt about Frank ever since going sober, and it somehow felt like now or never.

“Frank?”

Frank turns to his name and finds Gerard’s lips on his. It’s like the volume of the outside world suddenly drops and Frank’s trying to compute the fact that Gerard is kissing him as Slaughterhouse V drops to the floor. It ends almost before the thought registers and Gerard’s face is bright pink, already turned away from Frank.

“Fuck, m’sorry, forget it--” Gerard’s already pushing off the couch when Frank grabs his arm and pulls him down again. 

“Not a fucking chance,” Frank’s got a gorgeous hungry smile on his face before he pulls Gerard’s mouth to his.

Their first real kiss. 

And now, sitting in a parking lot, Gerard’s kiss is almost bittersweet, like a broken melody dropped into a well, the sounds fading outward. Frank can’t find it in his heart to press his lips back, and Gerard pulls away, eyes almost terrified. 

“Frankie--”

“I’m out,” Frank cuts him off as he cracks the door open, body shifting to the door.

“Come on, Frankie, please? Just hear me out?”

Frank’s heart seizes up at the way Gerard’s voice is so weak, and he closes the door again as if to say _fine_.

“You said that--that there was no happy ending for us, right? It get it now, I really do. Just--I never wanted to push you out of my life, because you--just--you mean so fucking much to me Frank, don’t push me away like I don’t mean anything to you.” The words are tripping on each other, tumbling recklessly from his lips, Gerard’s eyes pleading.

“That doesn’t make it hurt any less,” says Frank quietly, “Doesn’t change what happened, doesn’t change the anger or sorrow or...anything.”

It’s not a new revelation to Frank, but it might be for Gerard, looking a little stunned next to him. 

Frank opens the door. The sound is almost deafening in the quiet. He steps outside. Closes the door. And walks away.

\-------------------

Frank’s phone is buzzing abnormally loudly, rattling in the dark. He must’ve fallen asleep in the small hotel room, his clothes stuck to him in an awkward way. He reaches out blindly for the phone, craning his neck to see who it is.

“Yeah?” he says, voice a little gruff from sleep.

“Oh thank fuck, I’ve been calling you for like an hour man, I was starting to worry.” 

“M’alive, no thanks to you Mikeyway.”

“...so you’re not going to murder me in my sleep now, are you?”

“I _could_ but Kristin’s a nice girl and I don’t want to ruin your--whenever your wedding is.”

Mikey’s small laugh rings out on the other side, “I’m sure she’ll be glad to hear it. Look, m’sorry man, I just--good intentions, y’know?”

Frank laughs a little back at him, “You know what they say about those, right? So we going to Disney tomorrow or what?”

“Dude, it’s gonna be so fucking magical you won’t believe it.” Mikey’s grinning so hard that Frank can hear it. So much that it spreads to his face too. 

\-------------------------

There is sweetness to memories. A salvation that can be find there. But underneath all of that is the bitterness that no one wants to remember. That bitter nicotine flavor that Frank can’t forget. He could be sitting with his wife or playing with his kids, thrashing on stage or debating which cereal to buy before his kids start putting random boxes into the cart, and it’ll hit him like a wisp of perfume on the breeze. That somewhere Gerard feels that same bitter, burnt sugar feeling at the same moment that he does. But it passes just as easily and he goes on, leaning over his cup of coffee at the table, playing monster, spitting into a crowd, and chasing his kids down the aisles of the grocery store.


End file.
